


thank the hatchet man who forked my tongue

by paxlux



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-18
Updated: 2011-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s running and this isn’t a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thank the hatchet man who forked my tongue

**Author's Note:**

> AUish, obviously. Major thanks to hells_half_acre for the beady-eye, and whitereflection and maco2111 for the cheering section.

This isn’t a dream.

John’s running, as fast as he can, flat out, and his leg doesn’t hurt, nothing hurts, his feet pounding London pavement and the sound ricochets, bounces off the buildings in the dark.

A snarling behind him, heavy breath pushed between large jaws full of teeth, and John can’t look back at the vicious wolfdog chasing him. He hears the words running through his head, the same as he runs down the street, the words pounding the London pavement in his mind.

 _Most likely a remnant from the Romans. A hungry, consuming creature. Lore states “it was stirred by foreign swords on its native soil.” All those battles, well, losses, actually._

John neatly jumps the kerb, around the corner, and he remembers he said, Oh, this area was rural, so: Little Red Riding Hood. The Big Bad Wolf. Don’t go out at night, kiddies, stay inside and mind your mums.

 _Dull. Absolute idiotic, romantic drivel. But yes, John, the Big Bad Wolf._

He’s running and this isn’t a dream. Pure London streets, not sand, sliver of English moon, not blazing sun, and the sweat on his neck is cold. He knows he’s leaving his scent in his wake, like an airplane vapor trail, and he’s Little Red Riding Hood.

Sherlock will love that.

My, what big teeth you have, John will say, when he finally finds Sherlock again, and Sherlock will smile and John will smile because he’ll get to shoot this blasted wolfdog, he’ll take the top of its skull clean off with a single bullet.

When he can stop running.

Lestrade and Animal Control wanted to give him a bloody net.

A monster out of Sherlock’s books is nipping at his heels and his gun is loaded with salt and this isn’t a dream.

He hears the click of claws as the wolfdog chases him without effort and the night air is colder than it should be; John’s breathing out fast, it’s clouding in front of him.

The vicious ghost wolfdog, come to collect on its homeland, red eyes blinded by centuries of rage.

John identified the slashing claw marks on the latest victim, right across the chest, and the wolfdog had lost a tooth in the woman’s trachea, ripped open, her jugular just pulp.

And now he is running from those claws, those teeth because he isn’t a fucking victim.

 _Come on, John, don’t you want to see what made those marks? These people obviously weren’t quick enough to sense the danger. Look at the expression on her face._

There was blood in her eyes.

John identified the slashing claw marks, but Sherlock sniffed the air, around the smell of hours-old death and said, Not an animal, not a flesh-and-blood one. We’re dealing with something much worse.

Don’t go out at night, kiddies, stay inside and mind your mums.

John wheels into an alley and spots the tall figure leaning against the wall.

“Sherlock!”

“Is it—“

“Right behind me, now _move!_ ”

Sherlock spins, his coat flying out around him, and he seems like a, what term did he use, remnant, a remnant from his own books, a big black bird of prey with his wings and dark hair and light eyes.

Take a breath. Run.

The wolfdog gives three yips over the noise of their running and puts on a burst of speed and Sherlock’s saying, “Yes, come on, _come on_ , you sad excuse for a mythological beast, _you think I’m impressed?_ ”

“Don’t taunt the ghost wolfdog,” John hisses at him, with what breath he has, and all he’s focused on is Sherlock sweeping aside the shadows ahead of him and the rip of growling behind him so he barely sees it when Sherlock is suddenly gone and a hand snatches at his jacket, yanking him aside.

The wolfdog shoots past him, centimeters away, and rams into a brick wall in a crash of fur and limbs.

Yowling, it tries to find its feet, its colour flickering as if it’s trying to hold its body _here_ , and Sherlock says, “Watch, John, do you see it.” He’s holding John’s wrist, fingers wrapped like a manacle, so tight John can feel his pulse shooting up his arm into the cavity of his heart.

The wolfdog whimpers and growls, clicking its jaws, its eyes flashing reflective, floating orange orbs, and it shakes its head as Sherlock steps forward.

“Sherlock, no – _what_ do you think you’re doing.” Using Sherlock’s hold on him, John tries to tug him away, but only succeeds in reclaiming his arm.

“Watch,” is all Sherlock says and he draws something from his coat.

A metal rod, and the wolfdog barks, sharp, deep from its chest.

“One swing, and it will disappear,” Sherlock says and John replies, “You mean you’ll kill it.”

As if he’s offering the wolfdog a switch to fetch, good dog, Fido, Sherlock waves the rod at the curled animal. “No, momentarily dissipate it. Iron, it works wonders, John. I’ve been working on why iron affects the molecular structure of ghosts in this way, so they’re forced to disappear and later, can reappear under their own power, of course. But so far, the results are vague.” John sees him grip the rod tightly, Sherlock’s first sign of frustration. “Good thing I have so many subjects on which to test my theories.”

“Yeah, good thing,” John says, and the wolfdog is gathering its legs underneath it, coiled, so he pulls his gun. “Sherlock.”

“Oh, you’ve killed four people in two days,” Sherlock says, talking to the wolfdog, its form stuttering oddly in the dark, “you thought I wouldn’t track you because no one else can. But I’m not like everyone else.”

“No, no, you’re not,” John states sardonically, and then the wolfdog lunges for Sherlock’s wrist.

So John puts a bullet in its head. Takes the top of the skull clean off.

It’s disappointing because the wolfdog disappears in a cloud and Sherlock laughs.

“How about we find some bones,” he says between puffs of air and John just stares at him, this bloody great mad man twirling an iron rod in his hands as if nothing has happened.

Nothing at all. Nothing ever happens to John.

He sees the joke, he always sees the joke. He laughs and it gets Sherlock to laughing again and they slump against the bricks.

“Sure, bones. So how do we find them.”

“We look for them,” Sherlock says, a smile curling his mouth as he tosses the iron rod aside and John huffs.

“Oh, really. Brilliant, that.”

“I certainly hope so. How else would we find them.”

“Sherlock, you do this on purpose, don’t you.”

“How do you feel about crossroads.”

John frowns. He doesn’t see the connection, but he’s becoming used to the leaps Sherlock makes, mentally and physically. Out of nowhere. Usually without looking first.

“Crossroads. Bit of bad business. Bad luck. Bad things,” he says, thinking back to what his mum used to tell him. “They used to – bury criminals at crossroads.”

Sherlock nods, then tilts his head in a gesture, _let’s go_ , adjusting his coat on his shoulders, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “What else.”

They walk out of the alley and down the street because this isn’t a dream, just a normal night at two in the morning under a sliver of English moon. Their steps sound starkly hushed after all the running and John hears his mother saying, Oh, you could make deals with the devil, Johnny, for whatever you wanted. Spit in each direction and bury your name in the dirt, down with those hanged criminals, poor lost souls. Then he’d come to you, give you whatever you wanted. Your heart’s desire. But you have to count the price.

“Absolute idiotic, romantic drivel.” Sherlock sighs and John falls from his thoughts, realises he’s talked out loud.

“You asked about crossroads,” John says, somewhat annoyed, his mother didn’t go in for romantic drivel, but Sherlock’s already waving away whatever John’s about to throw back at him.

“Yes, deals with the devil, yes, yes. For those without enough…imagination or ambition to do it on their own.”

“Now you sound like Mycroft.”

Stopping dead in his tracks, Sherlock glares at John. “Or intelligence.” His eyes narrow and John blanks his expression in response. Then Sherlock waves a hand again. “But they also buried protectors at crossroads occasionally and, with cause and effect, given enough time, they become warped.”

“Warped.”

“You know you sound like a parrot sometimes,” Sherlock says, and John emphatically does not laugh. “Warped. Instead of protecting, they—“

“Attacked.”

Not many taxis on the streets, so they’re walking in the as-the-crow-flies direction of Baker Street. Sherlock shrugs and they cross the road and that’s when it hits John, like a punch to his stomach.

“But we’re in _London_. There must be – _hundreds_ of crossroads here. The streets. Centuries of building. This is all,” John gestures around them, “asphalt and concrete. How’re we supposed to find bones at any _particular_ crossroad buried under all this—“

“Civilisation,” Sherlock finishes smoothly. “I know. It’s a conundrum, John.” He smirks, the one that jokes at John, the one that’s this side of mischievous, like Sherlock really is the overgrown child John thinks he is.

“So. What now,” John says because he has to say something since he’s grinning idiotically and grinning idiotically at mad men is never a good idea, in the middle of the night, on a darkened street.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, as if he’s thinking, then he pulls his phone from his coat, texting quickly and John says, “You’re going to wake him.”

“Lestrade should be woken. Who merely passes the time in some disgustingly healthy manner between cases? Semi-comatose, letting the world pass by, such a _waste_.”

“You mean sleep.”

“Of course I mean sleep, John,” how he says John’s name with his razor brand of sarcasm, “he has cold case files gathering dust in his desk drawers and ghostly apparitions rampaging in the streets. Who needs sleep.”

John shrugs, “The rest of us, Sherlock. Our sad little brains need rest – you know, to keep from overheating. Since they’re so sad. And little. Full of rubbish.”

“Your sarcasm isn’t helping the matter.” Sherlock darts away, with a shade of that same smirk, his phone lighting the cuts of his cheekbones to make him look like a devil.

And John follows because he’s walked through many crossroads and maybe it’s here, not in Afghanistan, it’s here in the city of his heart, chasing after Sherlock, here’s where he’s made his deal with the devil.

Down the street, Sherlock’s calling to him, “What do you remember about the black dog. A certain smell, maybe how it—“

“Wait, black dog?”

“Yes, John, black dog. Keep up.”

“I thought it was a wolfdog.”

Throwing him an incredulous look, _don’t be daft_ , Sherlock says, “That’s certainly descriptive. Is that for your blog?” The way he says ‘blog’ with an emphasis, a plop of a word, like it’s any different from his own ‘proper’ website; John wants to stuff him into a phone box, but doesn’t as Sherlock continues, “But no, a black dog. Malevolent creatures who like to prowl and show up in folklore to do not a lot more than appear malevolent and stare at people. Usually.”

“Usually,” John echoes. “It looks like – well, I dunno, like a wolf and a dog, doesn’t it. Wolfdog. I liked ‘wolfdog.’”

“Wonderful. However, this one is killing, which means it’s been disturbed. Agitated,” Sherlock says, more to himself, gaze on the buildings stretching out ahead of them. John knows he’s tracing the map in his head, his fingers pressed to his temples.

They find the bones, of course they do, because from the four bodies, Sherlock had deduced their comings-and-goings, figured out their daily routes, and John’s blood had run steady-cold, like in a combat zone, Sherlock tracking the path the victims ran before death, all in this area, a different kind of combat zone; Sherlock’s about to start ranting, his hair wild like rising hackles, “what’s in the area, in this specific radius, it’s hunting here, right _here_ , there _has to be something_ ,” and John remembers a patch of construction on the way over, gone silent for the night, but the street torn up for repairs. Six blocks up, two left. At a junction. Crossroads.

“Brilliant, John!” The raving mad man breaks back down into Sherlock with an expression of keen amusement and John smiles, letting a little gloat into his voice, “You’d be lost. Completely lost. Traffic conditions only matter to you when you can’t get to a crime scene.”

They find the bones, with tiny flags around a shallow area of broken asphalt, like a surprised archaeological dig, and Sherlock kneels, dragging his fingertips along the leg bones. “What do you see, John.”

Knicks in the dirty white. V-shaped grooves. John swallows. “Knife marks. They either – well, they tortured it. Or didn’t know how to kill it. When it was fully alive. No wonder he – it’s so angry.”

Sherlock takes pictures with his phone and wants to collect a sample. “Ghost bones?” John asks, but Sherlock’s busy flicking open a pocketknife, and just then, there’s a soft growl out in the dark.

“Didn’t you say we had to get rid of it, all of it? Or it would keep coming back?” John’s edging towards Sherlock, oblivious because he’s too _focused_ , “I think you did. I think you said that exact thing. And we probably should do. Get rid of it.”

The growl is louder, closer. Orange orbs of reflective light.

“Sherlock, you can’t keep any of it. Sherlock. _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock’s murmuring to himself about femur length and the shape of the mandible, and the fucking black dog is staring at them with its teeth bared in its mandible right there on display.

My, what big teeth you have.

“ _Sherlock, get rid of it_ ,” John orders and the black dog howls, like a war cry, and John has his gun, he can buy them time, if Sherlock. If Sherlock.

Then there’s a flare of fire and the heavy mineral smell of salt as the snarling black dog rushes them.

And disappears in a last flash of orange eyes.

“Many happy returns,” Sherlock says, smiling.

++

It’s a demon. It is a demon that introduces Sherlock to John and sometimes, John thinks maybe Sherlock has demon somewhere in his background. His bloodline maybe. Mycroft could be proof of that. Mycroft’s smile is practically diabolical. Maybe he doesn’t have a soul; he does work for the government. The Holmes brothers, like a pair of fallen angels, and John takes it in stride. Better the devil you know than the one you don’t.

Technically, it is Mike Stamford who introduces Sherlock to John, but it’s a demon that helps John _see_ Sherlock. A demon on a killing spree, so at first, the police think it’s a serial killer, and they are right, in that aspect. But he isn’t human.

The deep lacerations across the victim’s wrists and carotid, but no arterial spray, and John stands there in the dingy room across from this impossible man with the dark curls and dark expensive coat and dark tailored clothes, whom he’s only met for the second time and there they are, standing under the bright flow of forensic standlamps.

Sherlock says, “Your opinion, Doctor.”

The detective inspector next to John shifts his weight and shrugs in a _go ahead_ motion, so John stiffly lowers himself next to the body, careful not to touch the bloodless wounds.

It’s bizarre, to say the least. And the whole scene is _wrong_ , different from violent death.

“Exsanguination,” John pronounces, “only.”

“Only,” Sherlock says, and John hears the prompt.

“Only there’s no blood. Around the body. Or anywhere.”

And Sherlock huffs, as if he’s exasperated.

“Lestrade, it’s _obvious_ ,” he drawls. “The victim came in from out of town and somewhere along the line between train, taxi and here, she met her killer. Married more than ten years, unhappily, but it isn’t the husband or someone in her string of lovers; she doesn’t know her killer, she’s never met him before because going by the state of her dress, very businesswoman, very professional, she wouldn’t meet him _here_.” His voice tips mockingly high. “She’s already running so many lovers and her husband, no one could see her with another man, she’d stand out, _be seen_ , and might get something on her clothes, tear her skirt, snap a heel, dear oh dear, God knows.” As John watches, Sherlock is talking so fast, as if it’s pouring out of him without his control, hands hovering as if he can simply pluck everything from thin air and it’s _fantastic_.

His eyes are cold and his tone returns to a lecturing baritone. “She was _brought_ here. This is no ordinary murder.”

“Because a gory corpse makes for an ordinary one,” Lestrade says warily and John smiles to himself as Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Can’t you smell the sulfur. There, the yellow smears on the windowsill, yellow on the soles of her shoes. A demon, Lestrade, _a demon!_ He made her write the symbols. See how the lines shake and the ends tip, look at her hands, her fingernails, so neat, the polish crisp, no chipping, she works at a desk, works with her hands, typing and writing all day, but here the symbols are almost broken. She was under duress.”

John clears his throat because he is strangely mesmerized and he shouldn’t be, it’s macabre.

“He killed her with a purpose, a specific purpose in mind and didn’t have time to clean up after himself.”

Symbols done in grease pencil on the floor, haloing out around the woman’s blonde hair, and John doesn’t know for sure, but they look old, arcane, profane in a way John only feels in the pit of his stomach.

“He’s making a phone call,” Sherlock says. “Trying to find someone. Or something.”

“A phone call,” Lestrade says, hand on his hip. “Like ordering take-away.”

“Yes, he was in the mood for Indian,” Sherlock shoots back drily.

“All this to make a phone call,” Lestrade repeats. “There’s a dead woman on the floor and you’re saying the demon needed to get in contact with someone.”

Curiously, Sherlock makes a cupping motion with his hands. “That’s where your blood has gone. He has to talk through the blood.”

“Like a conduit. A receiver,” John says and Sherlock smiles at him, easy dimples appearing, even as Lestrade groans, “He can’t just have a mobile?”

All John can think is this man, who looks like some of the symbols drawn on the floor, all lines and angles and dark undertones, he’s like nothing John’s ever seen before.

“Fantastic,” John says and the man shoots him a brief bewildered look and John realizes he’s confused this brain on legs. He glances away, back to the body. “There’s something here. A tiny word.”

“Just a scribble, who knows, probably writing her last will and testament— _oh_.”

Then five minutes later, Sherlock’s dashing off, shouting, and John quickly learns Sherlock is most likely made of energy, pure boundless energy, his body trying to keep pace with his mind.

John winds up following Sherlock everywhere: sprinting down streets, over rooftops, and then double-backing to the flat. They’re laughing out their adrenaline, at the sheer ridiculousness of running about like superheroes, hunters on the prowl of a demon of all things, God help him, John never thought in his wildest dreams he’d be laughing with a bloody reckless _genius_ over something slightly resembling a demented game of tag.

John knows, down into his bones, his old life is gone. Quite possibly, everything he’s been through before this exact moment, leaning shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock against the wall at 221b Baker Street, everything before was to prepare him for this.

He saves Sherlock’s life. Sherlock’s obsessive curiosity burns through him, like a raging fire, and John understands the nicotine patches, the hint of drugs in his past, the staying wide-eyed awake and the frenzied strings of violin notes. All attempts to control the fire. Someday it might consume him, but John decides today is not that day, he’s only just met this man and he’s not going to lose this, this threat and thrill, this utterly _impossible_ being because Sherlock said ‘dangerous’ to him and something in John unlocked. When John tracks Sherlock down, he’s coldly discussing Hell and souls with the demon, how to stay ahead and cheat everything including Death, don’t you want to try it, don’t you want to see the next great adventure like a bleedin’ tourist, don’t you want to see how I do it and why.

John pictures it, Sherlock’s brain piqued beyond anything else, a demon giving him the opportunity to peek, really look behind the curtain, and the world is so grey sometimes, maybe it’ll become something new.

John’s already found that now, here, with Sherlock, and in front of him, meters away, Sherlock’s almost hypnotized, ready to shed his own blood to appease his curiosity. Knife pressed to his skin, bright against the veins of his wrist.

A crackshot, John’s deadeye, one of the prides of his life; he doesn’t have to think, aims in the blink of an eye, and fires, the bullet flying just past Sherlock’s arm, hitting the demon square in the chest and the spray of blood, the unearthly scream snaps Sherlock into reality, where John needs him to be.

And the exorcism in exquisite Latin rolling off Sherlock’s tongue sounds like oncoming thunder.

++

John’s grandfather liked to tell stories about his childhood and the witches who gathered in the area, always causing more trouble than they were worth, calling down the rain and calling up the bees. John’s mother spoke of a field of ghost horses; every night of the new moon, they’d run scared over the grass and plunge over a cliff hidden by the optical illusion of the horizon because there had been a storm, seventy years ago on the night of a new moon, and they had stampeded and run blindly to their deaths.

In Afghanistan, John heard things. He saw things. A few villages would have empty houses, for no apparent reason until someone told him they’d been abandoned, infested by djinn and he heard their whispers in the dusty corners. A little boy carefully said John couldn’t use one of the wells because two-headed goat had tasted of the water and left it poisoned. The caves held secret eyes and doorways to places unnamed. At night, closing his eyes around the spots of blood in his nightmares, the wind would moan and talk.

Rocks with three shadows and impossible headless birds and once, a soldier in his care kept screaming in his sleep about a woman with her feet on backwards. John talked to a sergeant who’d taken shrapnel in the thigh, a story to calm the wounded man into sleep, about how two months earlier, he’d seen an entire city vanish as the sun rose.

After that, John found a piece of silver in his kit, like a coin, with two faces on it. Their mouths were open, as if shouting or singing. Their single eye, each in profile, were enormously large in their faces. He cautiously asked around, using vague questions, but he didn’t get any answers.

He didn’t have the silver coin on him when he was shot, lying in the dust, feeling his blood seep out. When he was invalided home, he made doubly sure it was in his pocket and he created a habit, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger.

No one else in his unit ever mentioned any experiences like John’s. Nothing like that ever crossed their paths.

In London, John would stare at the ceiling in the dark and two floors down, he’d hear music, scratchy and tired, every Saturday night. Leaning on his cane, John held the door open for a grandmotherly lady and offered to help her with her groceries as she struggled over the threshold and she said, “Bless you, young man, I’m in a dreadful hurry. I must get upstairs before Winston gets in a strop.” It was Saturday and she told him her dead husband liked to play his old records as she ate dinner.

As a soldier, everything was practical. As a doctor, everything was fluid, but stable.

He kept the silver coin with his gun. When he fetched the gun after Sherlock summoned him that first time, he took the coin too.

Sherlock’s world of things that go bump in the night wasn’t new to John. He’d just ignored it.

++

John would follow Sherlock down into Hell. And it's possible, they'd heard of an American going to Hell, coming back alive and reasonably well, "one of the best hunters of this age, John," so it's entirely possible, and John would do it, he's a soldier, he could invade Hell. For Sherlock. He remembers Sherlock saying, "That American, he has a brother. One is the brains, the other the brawn, quite the pair, so I've heard. The demon network apparently _loathes_ them, but they loathe everybody, so what’s new there," and John thinks they're like that, he and Sherlock, though John doesn't think himself stupid, he’s a doctor and that’s not exactly something you learn in primary school; Sherlock can certainly leg it or fight when necessary, but John's here to make sure it isn't necessary.

He would follow Sherlock down into Hell, but right now, it’s a cloudy prophecy, waiting for the any number of futures and he’s busy making the tea because Sherlock's sprawled on the couch, imitating a swooning maiden, silk robe and all, arm across his eyes, simply because the otherworld of London is going against his express wishes, being instead so repulsively silent.

"Abhorrent," Sherlock mutters, and John balances cups, thinking, If you could will something into existence, you probably would. Then we would have to kill it before it damaged anything.

"It's London, Sherlock. The dead are everywhere."

"Except in the streets."

"So, you want a zombie invasion then."

Sherlock shifts his arm in order to glare at John properly, and John calmly sips his tea. "Nonsense. Utter voodoo-hoodoo nonsense. Drugged, brainwashed people wandering the streets are not my problem."

"I meant the living dead part," John says, watching Sherlock's hands because they're about to start moving in annoyed circles, and he's right, they quickly take flight.

"The _living_ dead, John," Sherlock says, "Really. Isn't it about time you grew up and got rid of such stupid ideas."

"Stupid." He’s terse and can't help it, he knows Sherlock's in a mood, itching to throw a temper tantrum, and it shouldn't bother him, he's heard far worse, but it rankles. "Do you prefer ‘reanimated.’ The Americans put down zombies all the time."

"Because they can't seem to control their dead," Sherlock sniffs. "Or for that matter, their living who create the problem in the first place."

“Thank God you’re above creating the problem in the first place,” John says, searching about for the remote, “otherwise, I’d never sleep again. Probably let Lestrade arrest you. Danger to the public.”

“Shut up.”

“Not a bad idea, that. I should let Lestrade arrest you anyway. You _are_ a danger to the public.”

Sherlock jerks into a sitting position and scoffs. “Who cares about the public.”

“I do. For one. I am the public.”

“Very civic-minded of you, John.”

They sit in moody silence. John gives up on the remote and flicks open the newspaper in order to have something to do with his hands and Sherlock stares at where he’s painted runes haphazardly on the wallpaper in some florid colour. He starts tapping on the wall and John is glad he’s removed the clip from his gun and hidden it in with his socks because the last thing either of them need is Sherlock fidgety and handling a gun.

An article on oil prices and a few suspect obituaries and then there’s a buzzing.

“Phone,” Sherlock says. “Hand me my phone.”

John peers around the newspaper. “It’s by your elbow.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and doesn’t move.

“By your elbow. You can get it yourself.” Crinkling a corner of the paper in his fingers, John waits. He knows he’ll be waiting a bloody long time. He counts to forty. Then he stands up and snatches Sherlock’s phone off the floor and ignores Sherlock’s insistent upturned palm.

“No, if you can’t get it yourself, you don’t get it now.” The phone glows at John and he has to blink. “You – uh, thirteen texts. You’ve missed thirteen texts.”

“Lucky thirteen,” Sherlock says absentmindedly, rooting through the newspaper sections.

Sighing, John begins reading them, then his pocket buzzes too. “Now _I’m_ getting texts about the texts Lestrade sent you,” he says, sighing again.

“The inspector is nothing if not persistent,” Sherlock says, folding the paper over his hands, “and annoying.” John has a shiny new ID badge from the last time Lestrade was annoying because Sherlock’s fingers are too restless and sneaky themselves, but his pickpocketing can be useful, especially when you’re chasing down an imp with a fanatical need/love of money and Sherlock grabs the coins from your jacket pocket and tosses them in the road and the imp stops with a squeal to pick up and count the loose change. Though that time, the maneuver didn’t have much finesse.

“A burglary at a jewelry store. Alarms disabled. Glass cases intact. Cameras didn’t catch a thing. No footprints, no fingerprints, no nothing.”

“Is there fresh paint,” Sherlock asks, squinting at the newspaper print and John texts Lestrade the question, then reads ahead.

“Woman mugged by someone invisible—“

“Insurance fraud.”

“Man and his dog terrorised by their house – hang on, a _house_ , how can a house—“

“Have they actually been _attacked_?”

John frowns at the dispassionate note in Sherlock’s voice. “No, just—“

“You’re right, John. Merely a case of a filthy house. Have someone check the pipes and air ducts. Owner may actually be poisoning himself and the dog with carbon monoxide, accidentally, if his paranoia is a mark of his IQ. New filters, a good cleaning, maybe an actual plumber to look over the system instead of him jerry-rigging it himself,” Sherlock expounds all in one breath and John shakes himself out of his brief surprise, _you’re right, John_ , to find the phone buzzing again.

“Oh, Lestrade says there is fresh paint. Beige. To match the walls and door lintels.”

“The manager and the janitor went in on it together. Both have the access; one has the keys, codes, etc.; the other has the cleaning supplies. The trolley they brought hit the doorframe. Boring.” The light eyes widen and Sherlock’s mouth flattens and he looks like he might eat the newsprint. “Nothing supernatural there.” He flicks dismissively at John, Lestrade, London in general for being uncooperative and not bringing him his usual otherwordly chaos fix.

It never ceases to amaze John, and he thinks it never will, everything about Sherlock, the man practically _hums_ with a high voltage current, a sparking live wire held tightly within his brain and body, and maybe that controlled Tesla coil extends out into the world, so he can gather and touch the strings, connections, and see every point down the underlying power lines, faster than light or sound. It’s a fascinating thing, always in flux, even on the still, dark days.

Dangerous. John’s fully aware that regardless of his background and training as an army doctor, he’s only the second most dangerous man in the room.

Sherlock flops back onto the couch, pulling the newspaper over his head in a little tent.

They work their way through the rests of the texts, piddly little cases, “Not worth my time,” Sherlock says after each one and John omits all the snippy remarks when he texts back to Lestrade.

“A bookshop, broken into. Bloomsbury. And – well, that’s odd,” John says, tilting his head.

“What.”

He sounds so impatient, because even the piddly little cases not worth the effort of texting help occupy his brain when nothing else will do; John grins know-it-all big since Sherlock can’t see him.

“Stop smirking,” Sherlock says grumpily and John says, “Can you _hear_ me smirk – never mind.”

Sherlock’s hand waves in a circle, which should be disturbing since he looks decapitated.

“Only two books taken, and—”

“A whole bookshop and only two books taken. Which two.” The newspaper hideaway slips from Sherlock’s face and John pictures him emerging from words; he probably spoke full sentences when he was a baby, demanding everything in sight.

“One about poisonous herbs and their use in ancient witchcraft. Another about funeral rites and rituals,” he reads out and he knows on the other end of the text is Lestrade, hand to his forehead, disgruntled, waiting for a temperamental mind to stop flapping about, and get to his crime scene. “But there’s also—“

“A body, is there a body.” Sherlock’s sitting up again, his robe twisted around him, his whole posture eager for the answer.

John gives him a look, “Weren’t you taught any manners? At all? Stop interrupt—“ and Sherlock breaks his sentence with a glare, so John rolls his eyes, “Very well, yeah, yes, young man behind the counter. Head wound.”

And just like that, the typhoon is rising, ready to sweep John up and out the door.

++

Sherlock isn't exactly the best teacher. His mind breaks into a myriad of thoughts at once, and he talks so fast, he has to say it all before he runs out of breath, only to repeat the process.

Their first murder together (the oh-so busy, highly communicative demon with the unorthodox long-distance calling plan) and they're in a cafe, waiting on a phone the dead woman planted on the demon, and John would laugh at the irony, only too human, but he's distracted watching Sherlock watch the street.

"So this is what you do, then. Solve extraordinary crimes. Catch beasts. Stop rattling bones. Restless ghosts. Scary nightmares from the depths."

Sherlock’s eyes flick to him. "Among other things."

"Things," John says, playing with the saltshaker, then Sherlock snatches it from him.

“Be careful with salt, John, it’s a weapon.”

“Like a loaded gun.” Shrugging one-shouldered, John thinks Sherlock’s having a bit of a laugh, but the other man is deadly serious. “You mean it.”

“Didn’t your grandfather ever tell you a ring of salt will protect you?”

John goes very still. “How did you know about my grandfather.”

“It’s always the older generations,” Sherlock says with a slight smile. “Salt is something old, and it’s a weapon against most of the beasts, as you call them, out there. Protection, defense—“ He cuts himself off and stands, almost knocking over his chair, before darting for the door. “Come on, John!”

He teaches John in taxis on the way to crime scenes, salt and burning bones, the two great purifiers, “do you know the Romans paid their soldiers in salt. Who knows what they had to fight in those German woods and on the French hillsides.”

“So every myth, all those fairy tales and folklore—“

“True, for the most part, though,” Sherlock sniffs, “a lot of them are hokum, so muddled with superstition as to be completely worthless.”

London slips past them in sprays of colour and light, reflections on the glass and Sherlock talks about the beings that crawl up from Father Thames onto land to wreak havoc, sometimes in cycles, like the tides.

He shows John his experiments, breaking down the components of ectoplasm, carefully watching videos of death echoes and making notes about light vs. sound waves, how banshees generate the perfect pitch of destruction. John becomes used to the sound of breaking glass.

One afternoon, John walks into the flat with milk and the verbena Sherlock wanted, complaining about Chip and PIN machines only to find Sherlock staring at a map hastily nailed to the wall.

“Mrs. Hudson’s going to want your head on a platter for that. A silver one. Nice and polished,” he tells Sherlock firmly.

"Telluric currents and ley lines, John.” Sherlock waves at the map gleefully. “The killer was tracing the currents, looking for intersections with ley lines. The human brain is like a small battery powering a complex city—“

“Doctor, Sherlock, I know all about—“

“And he was hoping to use the electromagnetism of the collective organs. He needed the brains to help harness the energy along the lines. Only it hasn’t been enough.”

Sherlock's learned so much about one world he deletes all the rest about ‘the polite’ world as Mycroft calls it, ‘the painfully ignorant, vacant and obtuse’ as Sherlock calls it.

It’s closing in on midnight and neither of them can sleep, a man’s death loop ringing in their heads, his last words _Sue why Sue why Sue why_ , skipping over and over. John’s worn down, exhausted and Sherlock’s violin is singing golden heaven notes. But suddenly, Sherlock switches mid-tune to a haunting, sad lullaby, a slow tripping simplicity of song.  
“What is that,” John says, raising his head.

“I’ve never been able to find out,” Sherlock admits, his posture swaying. “I once had a case in Cornwall at a rather large manor house—“

“But wait—“

“What now?”

“You left London.” He doesn’t mean to sound so thoroughly amused, Sherlock is a hunter and detective, but John almost can’t picture him leaving London. It’d be like John going into battle without his gun.

Sherlock looks sheepish, then swiftly annoyed. “Shut up, I am a grown man, I can step foot _outside_. Any more questions? No? Good, save them for later.”

A complicated matter of a school and children drowning, and Sherlock’s voice goes hollow and hoarse, “They were drawn away by a friendly lady who’d sing to them, John, only to be found later face-down in water.”

John listens and watches the little anguished wrinkles in Sherlock’s lines, violin dangling from his fingers.

It turned out to be the ghost of a governess, kept as mistress by the head of house, until she wound up pregnant and he demanded she leave. She killed her charges, four little boys, and then killed herself and her unborn baby. Over a century earlier. The nursery was boarded up, nailed shut, and when they took an axe to it, Sherlock found her sitting on the floor, singing.

“She sang it over and over.”

So John learns to not ignore the slipping shadows, the ravens gathered along rooftops, the lingering smell of cordite where a shot hasn’t been fired, but a voice calls out from the walls, You’ve shot me, where did you get a gun?

Mycroft calls it the battlefield, "when you walk with Sherlock Holmes," as if John’s opened a door best left closed, as if Sherlock is on some side John's unwittingly chosen, as if Sherlock is Death itself and John's only lucky because Death's taken him under his wing. He supposes it's true, not because Sherlock follows Death around or Death is shadowing Sherlock, but this isn't a lark, this is a death business, this hunting job, and so Death and Sherlock seem to happen simultaneously. Sometimes within moments of each other.  
John remembers Donovan saying about the crime scenes and bodies they visit, _he'll be the one who’ll have put it there_ , and it makes John laugh because if Sherlock was any madder, tipped off into the deep end, sure, he’d kill just to see what the results would be, a soul departing, a ghost lingering, a death omen screaming guilt in his face.

He comes home from the surgery (he is a doctor, he might see the other side of death and destruction, but he can still save lives) to find the Holmes brothers involved in a cold war of clipped short phrases, typical of their sibling language; Mycroft has his umbrella at his fingertips, Sherlock his violin, as if these are the chosen weapons of their duel. He’s grateful when he doesn’t seem to catch their notice because they’ve both deconstructed him before, like a mechanized plaything, each one trading sentences until they’ve exhausted their fun. Pushing aside a stack of books about metal and ghouls, John sits on the sofa to watch.

But the war’s been rescheduled since they seem to reach an unspoken testy accord, Sherlock winning out of sheer stubbornness, no doubt, because Mycroft doesn't cede the field easily, his mouth twisting with annoyance. It isn't a retreat, merely a lateral move as Mycroft stands in one smooth movement and says to John, "Do see he at least opens the file. It might be too much to ask of you, Doctor, to actually make him read it." He imperially hands a folder to John and tries to smile.

"I can read - out loud. If necessary," John says, as Sherlock swipes his bow through the air like a blade. "But I think we've both grown out of bedtime stories."

Sherlock smirks, muffling a laugh, and Mycroft's gaze bores into John. He doesn't look away. He meant it when he said he isn't afraid of Mycroft, even after all the cloak-and-dagger kidnapping and CCTV stalking, even after the Holmes melodramatics of the definition of ‘archenemy’ being changed to mean ‘brother.’

Mycroft tells John at the beginning, “That silver coin in your pocket. The one you carry everywhere you go. It’s a nazar. A rare one, old, very old. These days, a nazar doesn’t take that shape anymore. It’s a blue eye; you most likely saw them between battles. Jewelry, trinkets, painted on walls. Protection against evil.” He whispers, “You didn’t have it with you when you were shot.”

Mycroft tells John at the beginning, “Loyal, very loyal,” and smiles, like a threat.

Sherlock’s phone rings loud in the flat and then he’s crowing, “John, brilliant, _brilliant_ , we’ve got something,” his long limbs spinning to gather his coat and scarf and John as if he’s on par with other pieces of Sherlock’s property and John’s shrugging him away, out the door with an exasperated laugh, “What is it this time, Sherlock?”

They’re at the kerb, catching a taxi and Sherlock is overflowing with details, hands clapped together like a child with gifts, and John might’ve befriended Death’s emissary, he might kill and live and die for this self-proclaimed sociopath.

But this is how he wants it. He can’t imagine anything else.

++

Rugby is a brutal, unsparing sport, all sweat and blood and sometimes John couldn't see anything, he had to rely on muscle memory.  
Fighting the werewolf is much like that.

In any other circumstance, he’d laugh, a werewolf in London; he’d say, Are you American, do you know that movie, do you know that song.

But somehow this werewolf’s caught him as they were setting a trap for it, dragging him bodily next to a skip, as if it might throw him in and John’s struggling, his mind flashing, _don’t let it break a bone, don’t let it incapacitate you, for God’s sake, don’t let it bite you_.

His training kicks in, and it’s all sweat and blood and muscle memory, but the werewolf is _strong_ , stronger than he expected. He’s lost his coat, he’s lost his gun, bloody hell, _he’s lost his fucking gun_.

Snarling, a shock of teeth, and the werewolf is keeping hold of him, shaking him like a piece of meat.

“John!”

Out of the dark, a sweep of shadow and then there’s Sherlock, his face still as a mask. He holds a gun one-handed, arm straight out, and John can see through stinging sweat that his aim is steady.

"Let go of him," Sherlock demands. "Let go of him _now!_ "

Claws sink into the meat of John's arm, the braces of his ribs and he sucks in a breath against the shear of pain. Sherlock takes an instant step closer, the muzzle of the gun so close John can tell it's his.

"We already knew we were hunting a werewolf, from the mess you stupidly left behind in that alleyway, to the scratches you put on the walls of your flat. Oh yes, we've been to your flat, already found the body of your boyfriend. Your perfume is expensive and you don’t send an assistant round to buy it for you, you buy it yourself. Lucky for us we have someone at the Yard who wears the same cloying perfume, a gift from her married arse of a lover. Tell me, was your boyfriend trying to keep you as a pet, or were you just tired of him? In any case, we came prepared.” He indicates the gun with a tilt of his chin. “Silver. So, do you want to risk it?" Sherlock asks, words flaring out like warning smoke and John's thinking vigorously at him, _Don't taunt the werewolf, Sherlock._

Growling, the creature bares its teeth at Sherlock and John doesn’t flinch, those jaws pressed against him could bite any second, and it growls again, its tongue sliding against John’s skin.

Sherlock’s eyes go angrily cold, pieces of frozen fire and suddenly, John thinks, _Someone’s not going to get out of this alive._

"If you don't let go of him, I will make _completely_ sure you suffer before you die," Sherlock says, harder, and his tone is one John's never heard before: jet-black, edged heavy with violence and menace, "or I could aim for your head and make this a mercy killing."

Hot rough breath against John's cheek, claws squeezing tight, and around the pain, he can't look away from Sherlock, tall and grim as a wrathful angel painted on a death triptych, pointing his finger at all who shall die.

Then the werewolf jerks, John feels the point of teeth at the delicate bend of his throat and Sherlock pulls the trigger.

With a small grunt, the werewolf falls back and hits the ground with a crack.

John's knees buckle and Sherlock's sweeping his hands over John, "Are you alright? John, are you alright? Did it bite you?" and it's all he can do to capture the whirlwind, grabbing at the lapels of Sherlock's coat, "I'm fine, holy God, I'm fine. A few scratches, Sherlock, I'm _fine._ Are _you_ alright?"

Sherlock's nodding, rubbing the gun through his hair and John notices he's actually shaking within the confines of his coat, Sherlock was _frightened_. He presses further into Sherlock's space and drags Sherlock to him, bringing their foreheads together. Dark curls tickle him over his eye and he thinks, _Breathe, Sherlock_ , and Sherlock does before giving a short laugh, and they breathe together, the smell of cordite and blood and chilly night.

Three heartbeats, four, five, six, then John takes the gun from Sherlock, sliding out the clip and dropping both pieces into his pockets. He turns to assess the body and after a second, Sherlock's there too, kneeling, looking like the man John first met at St. Bart's.

Sirens in the distance, and John says, “You called Lestrade?”

“Texted him the address. Thought he’d want to be here for our catch of the day, but.”

“But,” John agrees, pressing a hand to his side, closing his eyes against the pricking pain. He presses fingers gingerly everywhere it hurts.

“You should be bait more often, John,” Sherlock says; he sounds very near, and John opens his eyes to see Sherlock, his gaze troubled, watching John palpitate his wounds. “It suits you.”

It’s a lie, a sneaking sort of lie, attempting to brush away Sherlock’s concern, and John laughs under his breath. “At least I can keep ‘em busy until the cavalry arrives.”

Sherlock laughs, says, “At uni, someone once told me I resembled a horse. I briefly thought about kicking him in the chest,” and they’re laughing in the dark before John tries to shush them, “Crime scene, we’ve become a crime scene, Sherlock.”

“Dinner?”

“Starving. It’s not good to let your flatmate go hungry.”

Sherlock’s palm closes around the oozing scratches on John’s arm. “Bit not good. They might not agree to be bait again.”

John chokes, stifling a laugh. “Shut up.”

Lestrade’s striding towards them in a silhouette of flashing lights and Donovan calls out, “What’d you do this time, freak?”

“Catch of the day?” Lestrade asks facetiously. “I’d bet five quid you were simply lucky. Think I’ll stick you with the paperwork.”

“No, Inspector, give it to Sally. She needs to strengthen her fingers and wrists,” Sherlock returns as Donovan sweeps by him, Anderson following closely along behind her. “Wouldn’t want her hand skills and coordination to get rusty.”

“Are you finished,” Anderson spits, “I’ve got a dead body to process.”

“Don’t handle it too much, this is your job, not your pastime, the idea is not to enjoy it,” Sherlock says, pushing John towards the ambulance and John lets himself be pushed, if only to hide his laughter. “Sorry, I’ve got to dash, John’s quite possibly going into shock. Werewolf, bit of a long night, you understand.”

The jet of police lights alternately illuminates Sherlock and throws him into darkness and John watches it all, the little skating details, he wants to remember this for any time they’re stuck at the flat, waiting for a text or phone call, having a cuppa, then another, then another.

The medics stretch out gloved hands and Sherlock almost blocks their way, but John catches his elbow. “Sherlock, might as well get cleaned up for dinner.”

Sherlock hisses between his teeth, rolling his eyes. “No, we’ll get take-away and watch crap telly, then no one will care you’ve ripped your shirt and bled all over the both of us in some sort of wild attempt to get back at me for the beheaded chickens in the bathtub.” He doesn’t look at John, but his smirk is back, the joking one, the one that dares John to laugh and make Sherlock right about something _yet again_.

John licks his lips, tasting blood, the sharpness of a split lip; he tastes blood, in the spin of lights, so he laughs, here with Sherlock, and here is where he belongs. This is his deal with the devil.

**Author's Note:**

> References to An American Werewolf in London and “Werewolves of London.” Title from “I Dream A Highway” by Gillian Welch. The “Father Thames” name came from Mr. Cumberbatch, in the commentary for “The Great Game.” I’m a silly American; I hope everything passed muster.


End file.
